


Apelsin

by originalblue



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Everyone Has Issues, First Time, Glader Slang, M/M, Minho Ships It, Nightmares, Oblivious Thomas, Post-The Death Cure, Rough Kissing, The Death Cure Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalblue/pseuds/originalblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months in Paradise, and Thomas still doesn't know how this whole thing works.<br/>He's got a job to do and a warm place to sleep and everybody's sort of safe, but he's too used to running. And now he's got nightmares and twitches and now there's shucking <em>Gally</em>, and sometimes he wishes he were still in the Glade, because at least there he knew the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apelsin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boatofcharms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatofcharms/gifts).



> For Den, who knows what she did and now has to suffer with me. <3

_They let him out of the smaller box and then he was in a bigger box and there were trees. Walls. Trees. Trees and walls and grass and thorns and boys and monsters and a girl and a Griever with Chuck's face that ground them all up and swallowed them-_

Something was shaking Thomas's shoulder. He scrambled out of bed, the rusty knife from under his pillow in his right hand, his other arm up defensively. He should have cut his too-long hair to keep it out of his eyes, should have worn boots to bed, he'd _known_ it was only a matter of time until something happened, he'd thought they were safe here, they were supposed to be _safe_ -

His bleary eyes finally found Minho, who regarded him calmly from the end of his bed, both hands up and empty. “Thomas, it's okay. We're good. It's just me. You were having a nightmare.”

Thomas slowly relaxed, pulse still thundering in his ears. “Sorry,” he croaked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Didn't mean to freak out like that.”

Minho shrugged. “None of us do. Nightmares do weird stuff to our heads.” He reached a comforting hand out and clapped Thomas on the shoulder. “Breakfast is in five, okay? Get some clothes on and get washed up. I was gonna invite you for a run, but I don't think you're up for it.”

Running a still-trembling hand through his hair, Thomas nodded, turning to the basin next to the bed. “See you in a few.” He scrunched his eyes shut and splashed water on his face, the cold waking him the rest of the way.

The flimsy baseboards creaked as Minho stepped outside and pulled the makeshift door shut behind him. As soon as the door was closed, Thomas took a deep shuddering breath and sank back onto the bed, putting the knife back and resting his elbows on his knees.

He'd been so sure that this was it. It had been as real as anything. It had been more than six months now, more than half a year of regular-ish meals and no guns or grievers screaming in the night, and he still couldn't let himself trust it. It couldn't just be over. There would always be something else, some other emergency that meant the Rat-Man was gonna cut their brains open and root around-

He took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his face.

It was okay. It wasn't a real threat this time. Just his unconscious brain kicking into overdrive for no discernible reason.

He leaned over and picked up his blankets from where he'd thrashed them off in his sleep.

Dreams sucked.

At least the cabin meant he had _some_ privacy, even if Minho did sometimes treat knocking like a suggestion. The walls kept things quiet and waterproof, and that was all Thomas really wanted; well, heating would have been nice, but he'd settle for extra blankets until the building teams got more experienced with their materials. The small room was also full to the brim with whatever paper and books they'd been able to find this week, stacks covering the floor and sitting on makeshift shelves of old boxes.

Even though he'd told the builders that he'd be doing most of his work in the main hall with Minho and the others, they'd still made him a tiny work desk to fit under the window, and a rough chair to sit on, and they'd forced him to accept a prized bundle of pens and pencils that he kept tucked out of sight beneath the bed. It still felt a little weird that anyone would be lining up to give him things, but he'd used them well. He rationed the pencils and pens as well as he could, using his touch screen when possible, but he felt bad using the generator to charge it when he didn't have to.

Body moving on autopilot, he pulled on some clothes and let the smell of breakfast pull him outside, tugging his fleece-lined sleeves down around his wrists for warmth. He rubbed his hands together and huffed into his palms, watching his breath crystallize in the dewy morning air.

The line for breakfast was short this early; the sleepy people in front of him were mostly from the late night patrol and the building crews, who were always up an hour before anyone else. He squinted against the sun and took a deep breath, accepting his food with a murmured thanks and stepping towards the tables.

Minho sat at the head of the main table, deep in conversation with Elen, the girl in charge of hunting, and Marcus, the boy in charge of foraging, their heads bent together as they went over papers and Brenda's patrol routes.

He seemed busy. Thomas didn't want to bug him.

He picked one of the benches towards the middle of the table, far enough away that he could eat in peace but still talk to Minho if he needed to, then dug in. The food was good enough, for what it was. You couldn't go too wrong with hard bread and thin soup.

A tray clattered down in front of him, and he looked up in surprise. “It's not gonna run away, Greenie,” Gally said, grabbing his own spoon. “If you don't chew your food, you'll choke. That'd be a pretty lame way to go, considering you made it out of the Maze.” He was already in his work clothes for the day, worn jeans and heavy boots and a new dark red jacket with extra padding stitched into the shoulders. Not that Thomas noticed.

“Why don't you go bother someone else, Gally?” he said between bites, rolling his eyes. “You've got plenty of willing underlings to torture now. Pretty sure they'd fall at your feet if you even talked to them.” He very carefully didn't look at the way Gally's shoulders filled out his shirt or the way the freckles on his nose and cheeks had darkened in the sun.

Gally shrugged. “Takes all the fun out of it if they want me to. Besides, they don't push back. It's too easy. It's like ordering around a dozen Chucks.”

He seemed to freeze once he realized what he'd said, face going strange. He looked down at his tray and tore off a hunk of bread, stuffing it into his mouth and chewing.

There was a long second before Thomas cleared his throat. “So, you guys are gonna have the new cabins done soon, right?”

Gally nodded, shoulders still tense. “It's gonna get colder pretty quick, so yeah, everyone wants to finish. We've got some guys doing extra furniture while we wait for more lumber. The logging crew's having a hard time shifting so much wood.”

Tilting his bowl, Thomas sipped the last of his soup and mopped the dregs with his bread. “I was thinking about that, actually,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I read something last week about moving lumber. I was thinking we could use the river to do it, like they used to before they had transports. They'd float pretty quickly, and we could save on fuel.” He used the blunt end of his spoon to draw patterns on the tabletop and sighed. Most of his frustratingly slow research into life before the solar flares had been fruitless, full of dead terms and lost technology.

“It might be a good idea.”

He glanced up, surprised. “Yeah?”

Gally nodded, interest cutting through his usual expression of vague annoyance. “Yeah. I've been out to the logging area; they try not to cut down newer growth, since the wood's too green to be useful, so they've been cutting up near the river. We'd have to figure out a way to stop the wood from getting shucked up on the way, though.”

“Is that where the whole 'Greenie' thing came from? Green wood? Not greenbean?”

Gally raised an eyebrow. “You didn't know that?”

“Guess not.” Thomas put his spoon back onto his tray. “I think 'green' used to mean something else before the flares. Something about growing.”

Gally shrugged and zipped his jacket to his throat. “Could be.” He finished his food quickly, drinking his soup in gulps, before rolling his neck and shoulders and getting to his feet. “Can't hang around, Greenie. Got work to do. Let me know if the river thing pans out.” He picked up his tray and left, and Thomas watched him go, noting the way people shied out of his path, either too wary or too respectful to approach him.

“Did he confess his undying love for you yet?” Minho called from the end of the table, voice wry, and Thomas gestured rudely in his direction, taking his tray to the wash pile before plunking himself down next to his fearless leader. Marcus and Elen had gone, taking the papers with them, leaving Minho to finish his now cold soup in peace.

Thomas stretched his legs out under the table, folding his head onto his arms. “Pretty sure Gally confessing his undying love for anyone is about as likely as me taming a Griever and keeping it as a pet.”

Minho nodded understandingly. “You know, I _thought_ I heard some weird noises coming from your cabin-”

Thomas elbowed him in the ribs, and Minho elbowed him back, and suddenly they were laughing, and Thomas felt a little better about the day that had started on such a bad note.

“Anyways,” he said, dusting imaginary dirt off his jacket. “I had an idea.”

“You? An idea? _Really_?” Minho said, chin propped on one fist. “Do tell.”

“It's about the lumber,” Thomas began, and explained what he'd read. “Gally thought it might be worth looking into,” he added.

Minho's face was full of unholy amusement. “Oh, _Gally_ did, huh?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He was Keeper of the Builders for three years, right? The guy might be an ass sometimes, but he knows what he's doing.”

“You sure he wasn't just saying that to get on your good side?”

“Why the shuck would Gally want to be on _my_ good side?”

Minho gave him a curious look. “Do you seriously not notice it?”

Thomas stopped trying to see if he could stretch his arms across the table. “Notice what?”

Minho snorted. “Maybe notice the way he glares whenever you walk by? You can't tell me you don't see that.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, deflating slightly. “No, I noticed that. He hates me.”

“He doesn't hate you.” Minho finished his food and took out his water flask, sipping slowly. “He's a kind of careful guy, in some ways. He wouldn't spend that much time looking at you if he hated you.”

“So you think he's... what?" Thomas blinked at him. "...into me?” The words felt strange in his mouth. Gally wasn't into anyone. Thomas wasn't even sure Gally wanted to be into anyone. It was like someone had stuck a huge invisible sign across Gally's forehead that said 'leave me the shuck alone or pay the price.'

Besides, it was _Gally_. He was a shucking force of nature. If he wanted to get with someone, then Thomas was pretty sure he'd make it happen.

Minho shrugged. “Wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened. And he was really weird after you came to the Glade. Angrier than usual. He wasn't always like that.”

Thomas was quiet for a long few minutes, fingers tapping nervously across his knees. “That's kind of jacked, man. I mean, _Gally_.”

Minho got to his feet, nodding to people in the distance as the camp began to wake. “Well, _he's_ kind of jacked. We all are.” He put his dishes on the pile and waved a goodbye that Thomas barely managed to acknowledge, too caught up in the idea that _Gally_ could be into someone.

\--

Paradise's food wasn't actually all that heavenly. It was mostly whatever the hunting party scrounged up or the foragers found when they made trips into the old cities, and that translated into a pretty steady diet of tough meat and stale canned goods. The cooks did the best they could, but cooking was hard when you didn't even know where to start.

And even if Thomas had a bad habit of getting caught up in his work, he _wasn't_ a workaholic, despite what Minho said to the contrary. It was just that working ate up Thomas's considerable free time, giving him a way to feel useful.

It also stopped him from staring at his ceiling for hours, trying not to imagine what Paradise would have been like if everyone had made it.

Two weeks after his conversation with Minho, Thomas found it: a cookbook. It was in another language, but after six months, he was so ready for food made with actual instructions that he knuckled down and spent the majority of two days translating it, staying up with his touch screen and a dictionary and a rapidly waning pen. Then he took a few hours to find out how the most common ingredients worked so he could make a list of possible substitutions for Frypan to work with.

On the third day, he gave Minho his findings with a weary smile and a mocking salute, waiting as he read them and handed them off to one of the cooks. Thomas was ready to go back to his cabin and fall into bed face-first, but he wanted to make sure Minho didn't have any other immediate work for him.

“I'm worried about you, shank,” Minho said, flicking through his copy of the pages. “You need to eat more, and talk to someone who isn't me or Gally or Frypan.”

“I talk to other people,” Thomas protested weakly, looking around for support and finding none. Minho's assistant Noah was knee-deep in old weather patterns and terrain maps, and the quartermaster always went with Minho's decisions.

Minho's gaze caught him out. “Yeah? Like who?”

“I talk to Brenda sometimes,” he muttered, shifting his weight, suddenly antsy.

“No, you sit in the same room as her during meetings sometimes. That's not the same.”

“Whatever.” Thomas pushed his hair out of his face. “Can I go sleep now?”

Minho's mouth twisted, but he nodded.

Thomas walked back to his cabin in a daze, the tall grass brushing his elbows as he stuck his hands in his pockets. He'd been more than ready to sleep five minutes earlier, when he was stuck in Minho's office, but now he was too keyed up. Maybe he'd start rereading some of WICKED's files on the Maze projects. That always helped him to focus.

“Hey, slinthead!” came a shout, and Thomas paused, turning and blinking in the glare of the sun.

Gally jogged towards him, a bundle clutched in his hands. When he caught up, he shoved it at Thomas. “Eat that,” he said, no room for argument in his tone. “Frypan says you haven't been by in two days. You don't eat, you die. Got it?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Already got the lecture from Minho, _mom_.”

Gally turned red. “Next time I'll let you starve, Greenie,” he warned, and stalked off, leaving Thomas clutching the bulky cloth.

He opened the bundle when he got home; it was a thick sandwich with some kind of meat – squirrel, maybe? – an apple, and a tin bottle labeled 'not too much' that he opened gingerly. He sniffed it and coughed; yep, that was Gally's battery acid swill. Apparently he'd found what he needed to make a new still, or at least something approximately alcoholic.

Looking back at the bottle, he took a careful sip. It tasted like apples and a hangover. His eyes watered almost immediately, and he had to force himself to swallow, putting the cap back on and putting it on the desk.

“Shuck,” he muttered, eating his sandwich and part of the apple. He put the rest on the cloth and lay down, his head spinning a little.

Did it matter if he napped? He was pretty tired, and he hadn't slept last night. Or the night before. He could look at the schematics later, not that it would make any difference; he had them memorized by now. He could just sleep for a little while, and when he woke up, he'd be refreshed.

He turned onto his side, warm from the alcohol and the food, and let himself slide into sleep.

\--

They weren't in the Glade anymore, but some things were still the same. There were wrestling matches at night, more of a way to relieve stress than anything, and with the way the temperature was climbing, they all needed it. Tempers and temperatures were related, they were finding, and without the lake to cool off in, Thomas would have bugged out by the second week.

He needed to hit something, but he didn't want to join in, didn't want to ever feel the way muscle and bone crunched under his hands ever again. Even just the friendly bouts were too much, too reminiscent of everything he'd done to get here. It made his heart pound and his hands twitch and when it got to be too much, he walked down to the dock and dunked his head into the water until he felt human again. He stayed away from the angry fights, the ones that ended in blood and missing teeth and Minho ordering them to stop before someone got really hurt.

But sometimes he could watch Gally's fights.

He fought easily, like he was back in the circle in the Glade, back with the torches and the walls of the Maze and the terrible throat-burning alcohol. He fought like everyone was still alive, like he was still Keeper of the Builders, like he was still just a boy in a pack of brothers. He fought like he talked, clipped, abrupt, purposeful, hard hands striking and twisting and throwing people into the dirt until they gave laughing gasps and surrendered.

And sometimes when he was fighting, his shirt would get yanked sideways, loose threads pulling, and Thomas had to look away, swallowing. The worst was when it got too hot, when the air pressed in around them all, when the fights were a little nastier than usual, when Gally reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt off.

Those were the nights Thomas went out to the lake and stood knee-deep in the cool water until he felt better.

\--

“I think you're wrong. I just don't- I don't see it,” Thomas said, turning off his reader screen and leaning back in his chair. His work for the day was finished, and he could finally go get some dinner at a normal time. Maybe he'd go play with the younger kids, since they always needed someone to be referee for their wild games of tag.

Abandoning his half-finished model of the camp, Minho laced his fingers behind his head and put his boots up on Thomas's lap. “Don't see what, Greenie?”

Thomas sighed. “I don't think Gally's into me.” He fidgeted with a loose thread on his shirt.

Minho looked at him, mouth twitching back and forth. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, rolling his eyes. “He's _Gally._ He's just- I don't know, he's Gally. I mean, he's tall, and he's strong from all the building and stuff, and he knows how to fight and make things, and I'm just-” he made a frustrated noise. “I'm just a skinny shank who can't take care of himself or anyone else.” He pulled an empty pen out of one pocket and spun it around his fingers, watching it twirl back and forth. “Why would he even want to?”

The face Minho made was equal parts sympathetic and long-suffering. “You need to work on your self-image, shank. The guy's got lots of reasons to like you. Have you thought about asking him?”

Just the thought of asking – asking _Gally_ , shuck, what a nightmare _that_ would be – made him freeze up. “No. Just- no. I don't even _like_ him. And he would kill me with his bare hands.”

Minho shrugged, taking his feet off of Thomas's lap and turning back to his model, shifting one building very slightly. “Whatever. But if you ever need to talk about the huge shucking crush you definitely don't have on him, you're welcome to talk to me.”

Thomas opened and closed his mouth, hot retort dying on his tongue when he looked back at Minho and saw the teasing grin on his face.

“You're the worst,” he grumbled, hunching his shoulders and ignoring Minho's laughter as he left.

\--

A few days later, Thomas was in the middle of a particularly boring bit of decoding, eyes glazing over at the dozens of pages discussing drone capabilities and liabilities, when he heard light footsteps.

“Listen,” Minho began abruptly, dropping into the chair next to him. “If you're really determined to deny whatever's going with Gally, you _might_ want to stop doing that thing you do.” He gestured towards Thomas's face.

Thomas rubbed his eyes, too tired for one of Minho's riddles. “What? What thing?” he said, covering a yawn with the back of his hand.

Minho propped his chin on his fist. “Looking at him like you want to jump him.”

“Jump him?” Thomas gave him a strange look. What was he talking about? Was this a Glader thing? Why would he want to jump anywhere near Gally?

Minho rolled his eyes. “You know... jump him.” He made a hand gesture that Thomas had never seen before.

When Thomas's face grew even more confused, Minho sighed. “You know, shuck him?”

Thomas's face burned. “I do _not_ look at him like that.”

“Tell that to Frypan and Brenda. They agree with me.”

"You talked to _Brenda_ about this?" His voice came out a little more strangled than he would have liked.

Minho shrugged. "She's in charge of the patrols. Figured that might as well extend to some emotional security too." He rapped his knuckles on the wood of the table. “Anyways, that's all I wanted to say. If you don't want everyone and their brother to know about your Scorch-sized thing for him, you'll stop staring at his back and his ass all the time. And his _hands_ , shank. I never needed to know how much you were into his hands. It's getting a little creepy.”

Thomas buried his face in his arms and prayed for the day to end already.

\--

A week after the weather started to turn cold, Thomas woke up sweating and panting from a nightmare, hands grasping at people he couldn't see, heart pounding in his ears. He pulled on his boots and thrust his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and stepped outside, heading down towards the center of camp.

There was an old kind of amphitheater out there, on the edge of the lake. It was mostly broken down, but the roof had been covered with tarps and the bottom level had been stripped, leaving an empty hallway lined with rusty pipes that ended in stairs and in lapping water.

Thomas sat on the top step, staring down at his reflection in the water, hating how haggard he looked and felt. He needed a haircut, badly, and there were purplish-green circles under his eyes. He dipped a hand into the water and ran it through his hair, slicking it back from his face.

“You look jacked,” a voice informed him, and he groaned, rubbing wet fingers over the back of his neck.

This was exactly what he didn't need right now.

“Shuck off, Gally. Not a good time.” He put his face in his hands and chafed some blood back into the frigid skin. “I'll argue with you later.”

Instead of leaving - like Thomas had desperately hoped he would, like any other _normal person_ would have - he heard the telltale sound of Gally's steel-tipped work boots scuffing the concrete floor as he sat down next to him, leaning against the wall of pipes.

“Bad dreams?” Gally said, voice almost quiet, so out of character that Thomas looked at him sharply. Gally's heavily freckled face was impassive.

“Yeah,” Thomas said finally, unable to determine if Gally was shucking with him. “Real bad.” He turned back to the water, elbows digging into his knees as he picked at the knot on one of his boots.

“You know, we all get those dreams, shank,” Gally said, and if Thomas hadn't known any better, he'd have sworn that Gally was trying to be _nice_.

He turned to him, swinging his boots up off the steps and crossing his legs. “You too, huh?” he asked, voice harsh as he met Gally's gaze with a glare. “You get dreams about Chuck turning into a Griever and killing Alby? You get dreams about Newt with the Flare, begging you to off him? You get those dreams?”

Gally's mouth twisted, and his eyes deadened. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Thomas stood up, sick of talking to him, sick of looking at him, sick of maybe wanting him to look _back_ , sick of feeling like this when Gally didn't even care that these people that they'd known for shucking  _years_ were dead, and he'd killed one of them, and Thomas had killed another and Gally didn't _care-_

“Breathe, Greenie,” Gally's hard voice ordered, and Thomas realized he was gasping, hands clutching at the pipe wall in front of him. Gally had gotten to his feet at some point, and one of his hands was gripping the back of Thomas's neck, forcing Thomas to tilt his head back. “Take a deep breath in through your nose, and let it out through your mouth.”

Thomas did as he was told, head spinning, and was amazed to find that his lungs _weren't_ collapsing in on themselves like he'd thought a minute ago. He let his eyes slide shut as he kept breathing, Gally's warm fingers stroking a soothing pattern into his skin as he tried to straighten himself out.

“I'm okay,” he said thickly after a moment.

Gally laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right.” He didn't withdraw his hand, and Thomas didn't ask him to.

Thomas turned back to the pipe wall, letting his forehead rest against the cool metal for a moment. “I want to go back,” he whispered into the metal. “It was so good there. It was only for a couple of days, but it was so good. We were all so good.”

After what felt like an eternity, Thomas felt Gally nod. “Yeah.” His fingers were lighter on the back of Thomas's neck now, catching in the shaggy hair at his nape.

Thomas thought about that hand, about those rough fingers, and shuddered involuntarily.

Gally's hand snapped away, and Thomas looked at him, taking in his glower and the ruddiness of his cheeks, at the way his hands flexed by his sides as he stepped away.

“Hey, I didn't mean-” he began, putting his hands on Gally's shoulders. “It's not-”

Gally's face was murder. He grabbed Thomas's hands, those deliciously rough fingers tightened at his wrists, pressing him up against the pipes.

Thomas's throat worked in confusion. "What're you-"

Gally leaned down and his mouth touched Thomas's, briefly, and then pulled away. His face was tight with something, shoulders rigid, hands gripping Thomas's so hard it hurt.

"Oh," Thomas said, and he felt like that wasn't enough. "You-"

Gally kissed him again.

Thomas was sweaty and gross after two days without a bath and three nights of nightmares, and he wished he'd had time to wash some of this off, because really, who wanted to kiss someone as gross as him-

But Gally was. Did. Gally was kissing him.

Thomas tentatively shifted his head a little to get a different angle and sighed, Gally's mouth warm and wet against his. He parted his lips and felt the slickness of Gally's tongue, and- oh, god, that was good, that was so good. Gally had to lean down to kiss him, and it was so, so good, the way Gally was boxing him in, the way his hands were pressed against Thomas's pounding pulse in his wrists, the way Gally gently bit at him and groaned.

Thomas pressed back as hard as he could, wanting Gally to do that again, wanting him to just stop being so _careful_ about this whole thing when the Gally he knew was all hard edges. But he didn't know this Gally, and this Gally was firm and insistent and left a trail of heat over Thomas's jaw that poured directly into his gut.

He sucked in a sharp breath of surprise when Gally's stubble hit his throat, and then Gally was pulling away, pupils blown so wide his green eyes were almost black, and Thomas had to grab onto the front of his jacket to stop him from yanking away.

“You just-” he began, not sure how he was gonna end that sentence, and he was almost glad when Gally cut him off.

“Yeah. I did.” He bit the inside of his cheek, frowning. “And?”

Thomas stared at him. “ _And?_ ” He realized belatedly how wet his mouth and jaw were, and how his lips still buzzed with sensation.

Gally rolled his eyes. “That's what I asked you.” He raised his hands to Thomas's, trying to disentangle them from his jacket, but Thomas refused to let go.

“Don't just- don't just leave,” he rushed out. “I mean you can't just-”

Gally's face, so relaxed before, shuttered. “I can do whatever the shuck I want,” he spat, wrenching away, and Thomas leapt in front of him, arms out to block the narrow corridor. Gally could get past if he really wanted, but that would require touching him, and right now Gally was staring at him like he was a viper.

“Will you just shucking wait?” Thomas said finally, meeting the anger in Gally's eyes. “You're so shucking impatient, asshole.”

Gally snorted, but dropped back a little, crouching and leaning against the wall. Thomas sighed shakily and sat beside him, lacing his fingers and propping his arms on his knees.

“This is weird,” Thomas said at last.

Gally's voice was completely level. “I know.”

“What the shuck, Gally.”

“I know.”

Thomas glanced over at him. “Do you know how to say anything other than 'I know'?”

Gally rolled his eyes. “I don't know.”

“Well, what _do_ you know?”

Gally socked him in the arm, and he swallowed a laugh.

Thomas looked up at the ceiling, at the water stains and cobwebs. “I guess I'm just... confused? Surprised? This is weird. But not weird? I don't even know what the shuck to think.”

“You said that already.”

“Well, it _is_ weird,” Thomas insisted. “I mean, you're you, and I'm me, and we're not...”

“Not what?”

“I don't know.”

Gally was quiet for a long moment. “Me either.”

Thomas raked his hair back from his eyes. “This is so weird.”

Gally sighed and shifted, his arm brushing Thomas's. “Greenie, if we had money, I would _pay you_ to stop saying that.”

They sat there quietly for a long time. When the sun started to peek over the horizon, Gally stood up and cracked his back, then left for work without a word.

Thomas stared at the ceiling and the lake and the rust on the pipes and tried to think about anything but the way Gally had felt crushed up against him. If he was a little late to the meeting where he was meant to update Minho on some old medical journals he'd been deciphering, no one mentioned it.

\--

He didn't see Gally all day, even though he forced himself to stop working in time for lunch, for once. He tugged on the front of his shirt as he got in line, already sweating in the day's heat, and glanced up to see Frypan giving him a look.

“You seen Gally?” Thomas asked, trying to keep his voice neutral and failing badly.

Frypan raised his eyebrows. “Did you two finally sort your klunk out?”

Okay, so apparently everyone but Thomas had known this was a thing. He swallowed and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Kind of? Maybe?”

Frypan grinned. “He's out with the logging crew today. Something about floating logs down the river instead of hauling them.”

“And they needed him for that?” He couldn't help being a little relieved. Just the thought of seeing Gally after he'd- after they'd- it was enough to make his stomach jump into his throat.

“They also want him to build them some kind of monitor tower up a tree, so they can make sure the logs are floating okay.”

“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, thanks.” He said goodbye and took his tray back to the office, trying not to let his disappointment show.

Minho threw a balled up piece of paper at him and gave him a knowing look.

When Thomas sat down for dinner a few hours later (“You've got to shucking eat,” Minho had said, arms crossed in way that said he meant business. “If you don't come out in the next ten minutes, I'll throw you over my shoulder and bring you out _myself,_ ”) he'd barely started to eat when he felt eyes on the back of his neck. He turned around just as Gally looked away.

That wasn't the _best_ sign, but Thomas would have to take it.

The next time he felt a gaze on him, he glanced around, looked Gally in the eye, and jerked his head towards the lake. Gally raised his eyebrows, but Thomas didn't give him time to shake his head. He put his tray in the wash pile and slipped away from the fire, waving to Minho as he took the path down to the shore.

It was cooler down here, cool enough that he pulled his scarf out of one of his back pockets and wrapped it around his neck, tucking it into the front of his shirt. It had been so hot earlier that he'd left his jacket at home.

“What do you want, shank?”

He yelped and turned around so fast he nearly slipped in the mud; he'd never been so glad for the rubber grip on the soles of his boots. Face-first in mud was _not_ the way he wanted to have this- whatever this was.

Gally stood on one of the low rocks that littered the beach, hands in his pockets, breath steaming out in front of him. “Did you need something?” he asked, a little more hesitantly now that Thomas was meeting his eye.

Thomas shrugged. “Yeah, I just figured we could, you know. Talk. Or something.”

Gally jumped down with a thud, and Thomas forced himself not to back up a step. “'Talk.' About what?”

Thomas swallowed. “About what happened. I kind of have. Questions.”

Gally's face was guarded. “So ask them.”

Here it was. The moment where he could finally ask Gally what the _shuck_ he'd been thinking, ask him why the _shuck_ he'd kissed him, when Gally was- when they weren't-

“Do you like me?” he asked weakly.

Gally was silent for a long minute, mouth twisting. His feet shifted. “Yeah.”

All the breath seemed to leave Thomas's lungs at once. “Really?”

Okay, maybe he kind of deserved that glare. “What the shuck do _you_ think?”

“I don't think you'd lie about something like that, but I'm just a little confused,” Thomas said, taking half a step. “I mean, is this new? Because you never said anything when we were in the Glade, but you don't seem like the kind of guy who keeps quiet about that kind of thing.”

Gally shrugged, looking out at the lake. “Thinking that you're gonna spend the rest of your life stuck with the same group of people kind of limits your options.” His boots shifted in the damp sand, stamping a heavy pattern. “Besides, we spent those last few days trying not to die. There wasn't time for anything else.”

Thomas frowned. Something about that felt off, like he would have _made_ time if he knew that Thomas was interested, but when he opened his mouth, Gally was shrugging out of his jacket.

“What are you doing?” he asked, confused.

Gally held it out to him. “You're shivering, and you've only got that shirt.” He got that hard look in his eye, the one he had when he was working. “Put it on, shank, or I'll make you.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, but slid it on, noticing that the sleeves - a perfect fit on Gally - hung loose around his arms. And it was still warm. “You're gonna be cold,” he said instead, trying not to visibly sink into the material.

Gally snorted. “I'm wearing a sweater and a long-sleeved shirt. I know it gets cold at night, and I'm not an idiot.”

Thomas flushed. “It was hot earlier.”

“Yeah, and it gets cooler when the sun goes down. That's how weather works.” Gally nudged him with an elbow. “Come on, I'll walk you back.”

Instead of turning towards the fire, like Thomas had expected, Gally started on the path towards Thomas's side of camp. Thomas stared after him for a moment, the faint torchlight flickering orange over the side of Gally's face and turning the edges of his hair gold.

“You coming or what?” he called over his shoulder, and Thomas scrambled to catch up.

The walk back was quiet. Thomas snuck glances at Gally once in a while, but whenever he looked, Gally was staring resolutely ahead, footsteps sure even in near absolute dark. The camp was a little eerie like this, all murmuring voices and distant firelight, and Thomas was glad he wasn't alone out here.

When they reached Thomas's meager porch, Thomas heard Gally take a step away, and Thomas couldn't just let him leave, not again.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out, grabbing at Gally's arm. “Hey, wait.” For some reason, Gally seemed so much warmer now, when Thomas could barely see him, and his heat was burning a hole in Thomas's hand. He didn't let go.

Gally only half turned to look at him. “What?” He was barely an outline in the darkness, twin glimmers of light a suggestion of eyes.

Thomas leaned up hesitantly, hand sliding from his arm to his shoulder, and kissed him. His aim was a little off, and his lips hit the corner of Gally's mouth. Gally was unfairly still through Thomas's fumbling, unmoving as Thomas put his other hand on Gally's shoulder.

Thomas pulled back after a moment, worried. “Sorry, did you not- do you not want to? If you don't that's fine, I mean, you don't have to, I just-”

"I don't do anything I don't want to anymore, Greenie," Gally said quietly, and then Thomas was being pushed back, and back, and then his shoulders hit wood and he sucked in a breath and Gally was kissing him like he was drowning. His hands pressed against Thomas's cheeks, holding him there as he kissed him, and kissed him, and soon Thomas felt like _he_ was the one drowning. He was drowning in the way Gally's tongue felt against his, the way the muscles of Gally's back felt under his hands, the way Gally's knee had somehow worked its way between his own. Thomas hadn't known that Gally felt like a shucking furnace made of pure muscle or that he would suddenly be very _very_ interested in seeing those muscles, in taking the time to map them with his hands.

He pulled back to breathe for a minute, and Gally kissed his jaw instead, his cheek, his neck, anywhere that he could reach, while Thomas's hands dug into Gally's shoulders, pulling on his sweater, trying to get him closer.

This time, when he felt the rasp of Gally's stubble against his own, he groaned, and Gally's lips found his again. There was none of the hesitation of last time, none of the softness. _This_ was Gally, all fierceness and stubbornness and hard edges that suddenly felt so good. Thomas kissed him back as hard as he could without hurting him, heart pounding in his chest, and all he could think was _yes, yes_.

It had probably only been a few minutes, but it felt closer to an hour by the time Gally pulled away, hands still on Thomas's hips.

“Keep the jacket 'til tomorrow, Greenie,” he whispered, and stepped away, back onto the path, back into the tall grass that whispered around them.

Thomas rubbed his mouth and ducked inside, glad that the darkness hid the redness of his face.

\--

Thomas woke up early the next morning, sniffling and sneezing and generally feeling like his head was going to pop. He got some hot tea from Frypan, nodded to Brenda as he passed her, and stepped into Minho's office with a grim determination.

“Oh, no you don't,” Minho said, getting to his feet as Thomas walked in. “Don't you dare. You look half-Gone. Pretty sure you're a walking germ factory.” He ushered him out again, hands up like they would be a defense against whatever plague Thomas had caught.

Thomas laughed, but it turned into a cough, and that cough turned into him leaning over the side of the railing, wheezing, while Minho put a steadying hand his back.

“Go back to bed, you dumb shank,” he said, ruffling Thomas's hair. “Don't come back until you're better. And wipe your nose. You're dripping.”

Thomas obligingly wiped his nose on his sleeve and showed it to him.

Minho made a face. “You're disgusting. Go be disgusting back at your place. I'll send someone to check on you later.” He propped his hands on his hips and watched as Thomas made his way back, shaking his head.

\--

By the time evening crept around, Thomas had blown his nose so many times he could _feel_ the skin flaking off the end of it. He'd put on both of his sweaters and pulled his heaviest blanket out from under the bed and cocooned himself in it.

When the knock at his door came, he was incline to ignore it.

“I'm gross,” he managed to croak. “Go away.”

Despite his warning, the door opened, and Gally stepped in holding a tray. “I brought you dinner,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the mess.

Thomas pulled the blankets over his head and groaned. This was very much _not_ the way he'd imagined today going, _and_ he'd ruined whatever was going on with Gally. No one could look at him the way he was now and still want to kiss him.

A hand pulled the covers back and thrust a full flask towards him. “Here. It's soup. Frypan says to get better quick.”

Thomas reached a hand out from under the blanket to take the soup and Gally grabbed his wrist, hauling him upright.

“Unnghh,” he protested, trying to sink back into his nest of blankets. “Let me swallow snot in peace.”

Gally snorted and ignored him, shoving a pillow behind his back and propping him bodily against the headboard. “Drink some of this, then eat the chicken, and then maybe I'll let you.”

“Your jacket's on the chair,” Thomas said. Maybe if he could distract Gally for long enough, he would miraculously get better and Gally wouldn't see him weak and tired and streaming mucus like a swamp creature.

“I'll get it later,” Gally replied, unwrapping the chicken and dashing his hopes. “After you eat.”

Thomas was too tired to argue. He chugged the soup, aware of Gally's eyes on him, and when he was finished, he blew his nose again. “I'm not hungry anymore,” he said when Gally nudged the plate towards him. “You eat it.”

Gally shook his head. “I'm full. And you need to eat.” The look in his eyes said 'I'm not going away until you eat some shucking chicken.'

Thomas ground his palms into his eyes until he saw bursts of color. “You're the worst, you know that? You've taken that honor from Minho. You are officially the _worst_.”

He could hear the smile in Gally's voice. “Yeah, I know. Now eat the shucking chicken.”

Thomas ate. Gally sat back on the chair and watched him, fingers laced behind his head.

When he'd finished, Gally took his plate and put it on the desk. Then he pressed warm fingers to Thomas's forehead, and Thomas shivered.

“What're you doing?” he asked, but the words felt thick in his mouth.

Gally was frowning. “You're chilly.”

Thomas sneezed. “No, I'm shucking _freezing_.” To demonstrate, he pulled his three blankets more tightly around himself and tried to stop the gooseflesh running down his legs.

Gally looked at him for a long moment, then seemed to reach a decision. “Move over,” he said, using his 'don't ask questions, just do it' work voice. When Thomas still didn't move, Gally reached over with one arm and moved him like it was nothing. Then Gally sat down at the end of the bed and began untying his bootlaces.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Uh, Gally, what-”

“You've got the chills,” he said, pulling off his left boot and shoving it under the bed. “Which means you're gonna have a fever soon. If I'm here, I can make sure you're not dying or something.” He brought his legs up onto the bed, on top of the covers, and leaned back until his head was on Thomas's spare pillow. He turned onto his side, back facing Thomas, and got comfortable.

“Oh,” Thomas said, and swallowed hard. He wasn't disappointed. For shuck's sake, he was a walking _snot bomb._ And yet, his heart had still jammed into his throat at the sight of _Gally_ climbing into his bed. They were both fully clothed, and he wasn't in any condition to be doing anything, but Thomas still kind of wished Gally would turn over and kiss the living daylights out of him.

Thomas sighed. “I wish I could sleep.”

Gally shifted, and then turned, and oh, his face was _right there_. Thomas almost wished he'd stayed the way he was. “Still having trouble sleeping?”

Thomas nodded. “You too?”

Gally rubbed a hand over his face, and Thomas could see where he'd gotten a splinter recently. “Sometimes I dream we're back in the glade," Gally muttered roughly. “Sometimes I think I can hear the Grievers outside.”

Thomas shivered. "Me too."

"No, but- it's different for you," Gally said, bracing himself on his elbows. "You only had a few days there. I had three _years_. So much happened there. It was home. We built it. It was the only safe thing I ever knew." He reached out and ran a careful hand through Thomas's hair. "And then you showed up and shucked everything up."

Thomas tried to laugh without coughing. "Yeah, well." Feeling brave, he let his fingers creep over Gally's neck. "When I dream about the glade, I think I'm waking up. I get scared that this is all just a dream, that I imagined escaping." He sighed. “It's weird that your dream is my nightmare.”

Gally was quiet for a moment, and Thomas could tell that he was thinking about how to say something. "Did you want this, when we were in the glade?" Gally asked finally, gesturing between the them.

Thomas paused. "Sometimes," he said, like he was admitting something. "Kind of. You were always such a asshole to me, or at least I thought you were. And you kind of hated me. But you were always looking at me. And you stopped me from killing myself, that first day. I don't know if I wanted _this_ , exactly, but yeah. I knew you were hot. I wasn't blind.”

Gally huffed a laugh. "Neither was I."

Thomas blinked. "Wait, really? Back then? You thought I was-"

"I didn't have a lot of options,” he said roughly, turning onto his stomach. “We were a bunch of horny teenage boys stuck in a giant murder box, and then this kinda okay-looking shank shows up? And you were such a pain in the ass. I was still figuring out if I wanted to grab you and kiss you until you shut up, or if I should have just let you run out into the Maze." His hand slipped across Thomas's neck, and Thomas sighed at the warmth.

"I'm glad you went with option C," he said, leaning into the touch.

"Yeah. Good going, past-Gally, you waited a year and guess what? You and the Greenie are kinda doing something."

"Are we doing something?" Thomas rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

Gally stopped rubbing his hand across Thomas's neck. "Well... we're not _not_ doing something."

"Yeah, but..."

"'But' what?"

Thomas shrugged. "You just don't seem like the type to do stuff with other people."

Gally blinked at him slowly. "I don't. Or I try not to. It never goes anywhere good."

"Yeah, because making out is _so_ terrible. Guess that'll have to stop." He reached up and tweaked Gally's thrice-broken nose.

Gally growled in his throat, and Thomas laughed.

“I like your freckles,” he said, running a finger over Gally's cheek. “They turn really orange when you're out in the sun.”

“Thanks,” Gally said wryly. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, and Thomas was mesmerized by the calluses on his fingers.

“I know the word for orange in six languages,” Thomas went on drowsily. “The fruit, not the color. But I don't remember learning them."

He thought about those languages, and all the time he'd spent before the Maze, working on the Maze, building it, knowing it so well he could draw its contours in his sleep, and he remembered Gally's face when he'd looked at Thomas like he was evil. He remembered the way Gally's hand gripped the gun, the way his fingers shook as WICKED took over, the blank look in his eyes when Minho's spear hit him in the heart.

They were both silent for a long time, the only sound the wind howling faintly in the trees.

"Someday you're gonna see it, shank," Gally said finally. "Someday you're gonna wake up and wonder what the hell is going on between you and me."

"I do that every day anyways."

Gally sighed. "Just stop it, slinthead. Just stop it.”

Thomas turned to look at him. "Listen. The way I see it, we've both done bad stuff. Everyone we know has done bad stuff. Some stuff is worse, but you know what? It's what we did. And some of it wasn't our fault." His hand smoothed over Gally's jaw, and he felt the way Gally tried not to lean into the touch. "You were WICKED, and so was I. We all were.” he swallowed. “Sometimes I think we still are. But it's done, and we're still us, and we're always gonna be us, and even if we do more terrible stuff, we still have to be us afterwards." He breathed out deeply. "I think that's kind of what Newt was saying to me, towards the end."

Gally's mouth twisted. "From what you've said, it was sort of the opposite."

Thomas shook his head. "No, not _actually_ saying, but, you know - underneath. He just wanted it to be over, because he was still him, underneath, and he hated what he was becoming, and what he'd done. But the Flare was eating who he was, and he didn't want that. He wanted to die the way he lived, as him. He wanted to stay him."

Gally didn't say anything to that, and Thomas stared up at the ceiling, thoughts still turning over and over in his head.

"You're weird, you know that?" Gally said finally, and Thomas turned until their faces were almost touching.

"I know," he said, leaning forward to brush his mouth over Gally's. "I know." He kissed him again, not caring that he might be giving Gally his cold when he did. "I don't think I've ever kissed a boy. Before you, I mean. I don't really know what I'm doing. Do you know what you're doing? I don't have-”

“I know that you've got a fever and your brain is probably going a million miles a minute, but I am going to straight up kill you if you don't stop talking,” Gally interrupted, voice muffled as he turned his face into his pillow. “I would really like to get _some_ sleep. It's been a long day.”

Thomas rolled over onto his back, eyes bright in the dark as he stared at the ceiling. "It's just- I don't- I haven't done this before-"

Gally groaned and lifted his head up enough to rub his eyes. "I have, but he died before you came to the Glade, okay? He was a dumb shank, and he got himself killed, and that's it. We're not talking about this," he said firmly, putting his face back into the pillow. "I am going to sleep and so are you. And I will pick you up and dump you outside if you keep talking, sick or not." He turned away again, leaving Thomas sandwiched between his broad back and the wall.

Thomas took the hint. He lay there listening to Gally's deep breathing, letting his own lungs match the rhythm until he felt his eyes sliding shut.

\--

Thomas woke up a few hours later, sweating profusely, unable to breath. He tried to reach up to strip off his sweaters – plural, right, he'd had a fever, hadn't he? - and found his arms pinned by a warm weight. Gally grumbled and shifted, knee sliding perilously between Thomas's legs. Thomas lay there for a minute more with Gally's bulk draped across him, trying to soak in the feeling, and then he gently extricated himself.

There was water in the basin and he used it to wipe his face and neck, glad he'd remembered to refill it the day before yesterday. He yanked off his sweaters and his pair of extra-warm pants, leaving only the sweat-soaked shirt and boxers he'd been wearing when he went to sleep. He sighed and pulled the shirt off, changing it for a clean one. Only then did he glance back at the bed, a strange feeling in his chest at the sight of Gally already in it, sprawled out like he was meant to be there.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he carefully lifted one of Gally's broad arms and tucked himself back under it. And if his face happened to be pressed up against Gally's collarbone, then, well, people moved when they were sleeping, right?

When he breathed like this, he could smell Gally's shirt, and it was pretty much what he'd expected. He smelled like shank, like the boys in the Glade had, a little like dirt and a little like sweat – probably Thomas's, actually – and he smelled liked sawdust.

Once he'd gotten over the fact that he had Gally in his bed and that he was _smelling_ him – which wasn't creepy, no, not at _all_ – Thomas felt himself blush under the fever.

Then he closed his eyes in the comforting heat radiating off of Gally's body and smiled, for the first time in what felt like weeks.

\--

When Thomas woke again, it was morning and he was alone.

Gally's jacket was gone from the chair.

He pulled himself out of bed. The dizziness and headache from yesterday were gone, but he was still sneezing an inordinate amount. He drank some water and spent the morning reading through some old language notes on his screen.

He also tried not to think about what it meant that Gally had been gone this morning.

When he realized it was lunch time and that the noise he'd been hearing was his stomach growling, he dragged on some clothes and forced himself to go get food.

His eyes searched out Gally as soon as he was in sight of the tables. Gally was wearing the jacket again, and the red really highlighted the gold tones in his hair. It was probably weird, Thomas realized belatedly, to stand in line for food and stare at the back of someone else's head and think about the way their jacket looked.

Logically, he knew that the thicker patches sewn into the shoulders were there to stop the jacket from getting worn out while Gally was carrying lumber or other building materials, but in reality they just highlighted his shoulders' broad slope. He was sitting with his builders today, laughing and clapping them on the back as they talked about the day's work.

Thomas forced himself to look away when Frypan gave him a meaningful cough and handed him his food. His face was red, he knew it. Shuck. Did everyone know he was into Gally? Was this normal, for this many people to be able to tell? Could _Gally_ tell?

But he sort of wanted Gally to know, right?

Well, sort of. Not that much. Maybe.

He studiously focused on walking to his regular seat next to Minho, and came up short when he saw the grin on Minho's face.

“Did I forget something about today? Is it a holiday or something? Do we still do those?” Thomas asked cautiously.

Minho laughed. “I mean, kinda, yeah, for some people it could be. Everybody saw Gally leave your place this morning.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Did you finally figure your klunk out?”

Thomas flushed to the roots of his hair. “No! I mean, yes, we worked some stuff out, but I was sick! We didn't do anything! Shucking hell,” he said, rubbing his face with his hands. “He wanted to make sure I didn't choke on snot in my sleep or something. He came over, gave me soup, and we slept. Nothing happened. That's it.”

The look Minho gave him was far too amused. “So you did or didn't make out?”

“Minho!” he half-yelled, voice strangled and ears on fire. He looked around and lowered his voice. “I swear to god, you're the biggest gossip in this place, and you're supposed to be our leader!”

“No one tells me stuff anymore,” Minho explained, taking a bite of his lunch. “I'm sort of an authority figure or some klunk like that, so I'm way out of the loop. I've gotta get this stuff where I can.” He finished his food and took a swallow from his water bottle. “So you want to explain to me how you went from flirting and arguing with Gally over breakfast to having Gally sleep over and you staring at him like he just gave you the best head of your life?”

Thomas was on his feet before he'd made a conscious decision to stand, a strangled yelp in his throat as he picked up his tray, face burning, and walked away, the sound of Minho's teasing laughter following him. “Oh, come on shank, it was just a joke,” Minho called, and Thomas gestured at him rudely, which just made him laugh harder.

He very carefully didn't look towards the builders' table as he started the path back to his cabin, knowing he would burst into actual flames if he had to look at Gally's shoulders again. Or worse, that patch of freckles underneath his left ear. Or- oh god, his hands when he was sliding his gloves on and off-

Shucking hell, Minho was right, he was a creep.

He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. A few hours doing translation work would make things better, right?

\--

Sunset rolled around before Thomas noticed, and he had to check the digital clock on his screen twice to make sure it was right. The days were getting shorter, he realized, and he'd need to get some new clothes soon. Winter nights wouldn't be as forgiving as the sweltering summer.

Plus, if they were right about the weather patterns, they might even get snow. _Snow._

Looking back on lunch, Thomas realized he might have overreacted a little. He let out a long sigh that shifted the papers on his desk slightly to the right. He'd have to apologize to Minho, and probably to Gally, too, for accidentally kind of ignoring him.

He groaned, and threw on his coat, deciding he might as well get it over with.

The grass was cool enough that it crunched under his feet, and he tried to focus on that as he walked.

Right foot, left foot. He could do this.

He got dinner, refilled his water bottle from the cistern, and found Minho where he normally sat, close enough to the main fire for warmth but far enough away to not get singed.

“Was worried you weren't gonna come out again today,” Minho said, without looking up from his food. “Sorry I messed with you earlier.” He took another bite, gaze still focused on his apparently fascinating sandwich.

Thomas pulled up short. “What? Minho, no- listen-” he swallowed, and put his stuff down on the bench next to Minho. “I wanted to apologize to _you_. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.” He took a deep breath. “Things are just weird with me and Gally, and I don't-”

Minho held up a hand. “Nope, don't. I don't need to know. It's okay,” he said, finally looking Thomas in the eye. “You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to. Of all people, I should have been the one to know you've got problems with trust and privacy, right?” he joked.

Thomas leaned forward and gave Minho a hug.

“Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?” Minho asked, squeezing him in reply, surprise coloring his voice.

“Nothing, just-” Thomas pulled back and cleared his throat. “You're pretty great. And I thought you should know.” He'd never be able to quantify how much of an understatement that was. Minho was the best person he knew, and somehow he'd managed to stay saner than any normal person could expect under the circumstances.

Minho grinned and socked him lightly in the shoulder. “I _do_ know. And I think you're pretty great too.” He looked over Thomas's shoulder and nodded. “ _And_ I think you should go talk to your not-quite-boyfriend, since he's giving me kind of an unsettling look.”

Thomas turned, and sure enough, Gally was facing in their direction. He looked away when Thomas tried to meet his gaze, and that felt like a sucker punch to the stomach. “You can finish this,” he said, pushing his food onto Minho's lap despite his protests. “I've gotta go.”

\--

He followed Gally a little away from the fire, stopping only to button his jacket more tightly as the wind picked up. He shivered, tucking his hands into his pockets, and, incredibly, found himself wishing for the unbearable heat of summer.

Gally was a few dozen yards ahead of him, head down as though looking at the path, even though Thomas _knew_ that Gally knew every path in the camp by heart. That was the first thing he'd done when they'd gotten to Paradise, was familiarize himself with every piece of it. He'd known every piece of the Glade, and he'd been determined to know this place too. His hands were in the pockets of his jacket, the jacket that he'd made Thomas wear, that had sat on Thomas's chair for one wonderful night while Thomas let himself enjoy being wrapped up in Gally.

Thomas sighed, slowing, hand slipping out of his own pockets and up through his hair. Gally was probably sick of this, sick of dealing with him when there were so many other options in camp. The way he'd looked last night wasn't exactly a lust- and devotion-inspiring aesthetic, was it? And then Thomas had effectively ignored him earlier. That had probably been the final straw.

He sat down on a crumbling log and looked back towards camp.

The fires were only visible as a big orange glow in the trees and against the sky, ash and embers flickering in the air above Paradise. What was the point of all this? What was the point of his brain and the immunity and leading some new civilization if Thomas couldn't even impress one stubborn shank?

And suddenly Gally was standing over him, looking a lot bigger in his jacket and boots and scarf than he had curled up in Thomas's bed.

“Shuck, you're huge,” Thomas blurted, and clapped a hand to his mouth.

Gally gave him a confused look that made him want to curl up into himself. “What?”

“No! I mean, ah, shuck.” He put his head in his hands. “Just give me a minute.” He took a few deep breaths. “What I was _trying_ to say was thank you. For last night. I felt a lot better when I woke up.” He put his hands on his knees and leveraged himself to his feet, fighting back a groan at the stiffness in his knees. “And I was wondering if you're- did you not want to do this anymore? Did you change your mind or something? Because it's okay if you did, I mean, I get it-”

“Why would you think I don't want to do this anymore?” Gally crossed his arms. Thomas tried in vain not to stare. “Do _you_ not want to do this anymore?”

Thomas gaped at him. “No! I mean, yes, I still want to do this, but not if you don't want to. I just-” he cringed. “You were gone, this morning, and I know you had to work, but I thought 'oh great, now that he's seen me like that, there's no way he'd still like me, if he even did in the first place.'” He winced, looking anywhere but Gally.

Broad hands touched his shoulders and Thomas looked up in time for Gally to lean down and kiss him. It was softer this time, less urgent, but it still made Thomas cling to the front of his jacket. It was over all too quickly, and when Gally stepped back a little, Thomas could hear his pulse humming in his ears.

“I still want to do this, Greenie,” Gally said, one of his hands coming up to rest against Thomas's face. Thomas automatically leaned into the touch, into the roughness and warmth of a hand he'd thought about more than he'd like to admit. “I just thought you might want a little space, after last night.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and looked over Thomas's shoulder, and Thomas realized he was embarrassed. “You had a fever, and you said some stuff I thought you might want some time to think about. You know. All that stuff about freckles and knowing ten languages-”

“Only six,” Thomas interjected. “And I don't know them all fluently. And I'm still shit at conjugating verbs in Latin-based languages. And I don't need space,” he finished.

Gally smiled, and the corners of his eyes creased in a way that nearly stopped Thomas's heart. “Well, I'm glad.”

Thomas leaned up to kiss him, sliding one hand into the short bristles at the nape of his neck, feeling Gally's hand wrap around his bicep. He turned his head a little, feeling eyelashes that weren't his own brush his cheek, and made a pleased noise when Gally used his teeth on his lower lip. He kissed to the corner of Gally's mouth and over his jaw, the soft sandpaper feeling of his stubble a welcome buzz against his lips. Somehow, Gally's fingers found their way into his hair, twisting a little in the curls, and Gally chuckled.

Thomas pulled back. “What's wrong?”

Gally dropped a soft kiss onto his mouth and smirked. “I was just thinking that you _really_ need a haircut.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and pushed Gally back a step until his back hit a tree. “Unless you're offering,” Thomas said between kisses, “I'd suggest you stop commenting on my hair.”

He could feel Gally's smile under his mouth, and _that_ was a strange sensation. Strange, but good. “I could cut your hair for you. You know I'm good with my hands.”

Thomas snorted out a laugh, struggling and failing to keep a straight face. He leaned his forehead into Gally's shoulder and tried to stop. “Oh shuck,” he muttered between gasps, “I can't believe you just said that.”

In response, Gally just tilted his chin back and kissed him until he stopped laughing. Thomas let himself relax into it, hands stroking over Gally's jaw, trailing fingers up to his temples and back down to his neck, wrapped up in the feel of it all.

“You seem pretty interested in my face,” Gally said when they'd stopped to breathe. “Can't remember anyone else being that appreciative.”

Thomas felt himself going red and desperately prayed for it to stop. "Your face is kinda, um, you know-"

Gally snorted, something flashing in his eyes as he looked down. "Yeah, I know."

Thomas kissed him again. "No, I mean, it's good. It's really, uh, I like it." He twisted his hands in Gally's shirt, looking pointedly at Gally's shoulder so he didn't have to look him in the eye. He reminded himself that after all the shit they'd been through, it would be pretty lame to die of embarrassment. He could do this. This was nothing, right? It wasn't the Maze, it wasn't the Scorch, and it wasn't Newt- he could do this.

When he finally looked up, Gally was giving him something that might have approached a smile. Not a hard, mocking look, or his usual half-smirk, but something tentative and sort of happy. "Yeah?"

Thomas cleared his throat, trying not to stare at the way Gally's arms stood out against the tight sleeves of his shirt. "I mean, you can be kind of intense sometimes when someone gets between you and your mashed potatoes, but yeah. Yeah. I like it."

Gally tipped his head back and laughed, and Thomas took the opportunity to kiss the line of his throat, which meant Gally stopped laughing and kissed him back.

Somehow they wound up against a tree, one of Thomas's legs between Gally's, and that was great, really great, and then suddenly they were sliding down into a pile of pine needles, and that was less than great, even though Gally's hands were in some places that Thomas was suddenly very interested in.

And besides the tiny pinpricks that made him squirm, there was something harder and altogether less comfortable digging into his back.

“I think I'm lying on a pine cone,” Thomas complained, and Gally rolled them over, letting Thomas's weight half fall on him, and that was _very_ good, so Thomas groaned. The sharp annoyance in his back was gone and he was on top of Gally, knees bracketing Gally's thighs, and he could feel how hot Gally was under his hands, which he had somehow managed to slip under Gally's jacket and shirt without realizing it. Shuck, he was practically humming in his skin. He realized that he was kind of hard, and shifted, hoping Gally couldn't feel that, and then realizing that he didn't particularly care if Gally did. He slid his hands back down to Gally's hips, feeling the thinner skin there and the defined V that led in from his waist, and he thought maybe this could be a good time for there to be less pants involved-

Gally swore. “I think I found your pine cone,” he grumbled, reaching back under himself and pulling one out. He settled back afterwards, sighing, hands on Thomas's hips, and Thomas realized with a jolt that they were still outside.

“It's, uh, it's a little cold out here for this,” Thomas managed. “Not that I want to stop. But it is, you know, sort of close to freezing.”

Gally looked up at him, eyes wide and dark over kiss-swollen lips. He licked them unconsciously. “Do you want to- do you want to go somewhere else?”

Thomas nodded, not trusting his voice.

Gally was quiet, and then- “My place is closer, if you want.”

Rather than reply, Thomas swung himself off of Gally and got to his feet, offering him an arm up. Gally took it, and kept hold of his hand when they were both standing. Thomas forced himself not to rub his fingers over Gally's calluses the way he'd wanted to for months.

“Your hand's cold,” Gally said when they'd been walking for a few minutes.

Of _course_ Gally couldn't go more than five minutes without getting on his nerves. “Yeah, that's what happens when it's below freezing outside and you're not wearing gloves.”

Gally grinned at him and reached into his back pocket, pulling out his work gloves. “Here, put these on.”

It was tempting. Thomas thought about wearing those gloves, the gloves that Gally used every day, how warm they'd be, how he'd look wearing them, and almost said yes. But that would mean Thomas lost the feel of Gally's hand in his, and he wasn't really ready to give that up yet, not when it was so new. He shook his head, face red, and bumped his shoulder into Gally's. Gally looked at him in surprise, then calculation, and bumped him back, and by the time they got to Gally's cabin, they were both laughing and half shoving each other, still holding hands.

It was a little unusual to see Gally laughing this much, let alone smiling, but it was nice to see. He didn't smile enough. The thought that _he_ might be the cause put a fizz in the bottom of Thomas's stomach that didn't go away as they climbed the two shallow steps and Gally opened the door. Thomas swallowed his disappointment when Gally let go of his hand, watching him drape his heavy coat and scarf over a chair and beckon Thomas inside.

The inside was warm, and nicer than Thomas had expected, at least until he remembered that Gally was great with pretty much anything involving crafts, especially building or sewing. It was cozier than Thomas's, although Thomas was fairly sure that everyone else's cabins were more personal than his. He just didn't give himself the time to think of it as home, and he was so used to living on the move that it never occurred to him to make it more comfortable than necessary.

Gally's cabin was comfortable, furnished with little things he'd probably made himself, and he'd even put in a window. The glass pieces were all different colors, Gally explained, because it was hard to find unbroken clear panes nowadays.

“I get why you wanted windows, though,” Thomas said, looking at the papers pinned up on the walls with rusty tacks. “After the Maze, it's nice to be reminded that there's an outside.” There were old things that looked like advertisements and some pictures on thicker paper that might have been photos of places long gone, and altogether it gave the room a lived-in quality that Thomas found hard to describe. And there were unlit candles in old sauce jars on the shelf by the window, something Thomas would have never thought to use. On the desk were a few chemical-looking flasks and some bottles that smelled faintly of apples - Gally's new alcohol setup, he realized.

While he looked around, Gally seemed embarrassed, picking up clothes off the floor and throwing them into his makeshift hamper. “Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, clearing off a chair that looked remarkably similar to the one in Thomas's cabin. The thought that Gally had made him a chair – had put time and thought into it, when he had so much to do nowadays – made Thomas's breath catch in his chest.

He tried not to smile, and instead got in front of Gally and put his hands on his arms, stilling them. Gally dropped the clothes he was holding and Thomas gently pushed him back until his knees hit the bed, and Gally went over with a huff of air.

“You're kinda bossy, you know that, Greenie?” Gally said, raising a hand to Thomas's face with fingers that shook a little. His hand slid down the side of Thomas's neck until it rested over his pulse point, where he was sure Gally could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

Rolling his eyes, Thomas climbed into his lap and kissed him. “And you're kinda a mouthy slinthead, _Captain_ Gally,” he said between kisses, and then Gally's burning hot hands rucked up his shirt as they slid up his back, and he moaned. “Shuck,” he hissed, and Gally's low laugh rippled through him.

“I've wanted to touch you like this for ages,” Gally breathed, face pressed into the crook of Thomas's neck, hands carefully covering his shoulder blades and trailing down his spine.

Thomas shivered. “I've wanted you to.” He leaned up on his thighs and reached back, pulling his shirt and sweater up over his head. He felt himself going red, felt his ears heating up, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when Gally was looking at him like that.

Gally pulled him down again, and for a few minutes all he could think about was the press of Gally's wool shirt against his bare chest and the weight of Gally's hands on his back and neck and arms and grabbing at the back of his thighs, pulling him closer, always closer. He managed to get Gally's shirt off at some point, and then, god, his chest was just _there_ and hotter even than his hands, and he was bigger and smaller like this, like he somehow took up more room without his shirt on, even though that was impossible. Thomas didn't let it go to waste, hands touching whatever Gally would let him, kind of obsessed with the freckles that spread over his shoulders and trailed down his chest, to the faint trail of reddish hair that crept up his stomach.

He pressed his mouth to Gally's collarbone, taking the sharp intake of breath as a good sign, and let himself focus on mapping as much of Gally's skin as possible. He tasted like he smelled, only headier, with a little salt mixed in, and Thomas didn't know how he was gonna survive after knowing what Gally _tasted_ like. He licked a patch of freckles over his ribs and felt Gally's stomach muscles jump, and before he knew what was happening, Gally was growling and flipping them over, and then Thomas got to see what all the fuss was about.

Having Gally's not inconsequential weight between his legs, putting pressure on all the right places, his chest pressed into Thomas's, made everything so immediate, so personal, that Thomas was hard-pressed to kiss Gally as much as he wanted. He wanted to touch everything, but Gally pulled back and moved down, hands ghosting over Thomas's ribs, raising gooseflesh in their wake. Thomas squirmed under his touch, gasping when Gally's mouth met his skin in the best way, tongue flattening and _teasing,_ something he would never have associated with Gally before this. He wasn't sure he could feel his legs, since he was fairly sure they'd turned to jelly the minute Gally's mouth went anywhere near his nipples, but he did his best to push his hips up against Gally's, and his mind went blank.

Gally paused, pulling his mouth away from his chest as breath hissed through his teeth. He looked down, all hard muscle and stubble and wide dark eyes and glorious shirtless-ness, and pressed his palm between Thomas's legs. Thomas swallowed a noise, head tipping back until he was sure he could see the inside of his own skull. Shuck, just- he tried to shake the fuzziness out of his head, and only succeeded in pushing against Gally again, and this time it was Gally gasping, and Thomas realized through the haze in his brain that Gally was hard against his hip.

“Mmm,” he managed to vocalize, pulling Gally back down and breathing into his neck. “Shuck, this is good,” he murmured into the warm skin, and he felt Gally nod in agreement.

“Do you want me to- can I touch you?” Gally asked quietly, and Thomas was already nodding.

“Shuck, yeah, please, please,” he said, almost begging, and when he felt Gally's hands edging under the elastic of his pants, he reached down and unzipped them himself.

Gally looked him in the eye, close enough that their lips were brushing, a half kiss, and slid his hand around Thomas's dick.

Thomas swore loudly, forehead knocking into Gally's shoulder and then back into the pillow as Gally's hand started moving. He was fairly sure he was dying right now, that this was what an aneurysm felt like, because there was no way anything could feel this good and not mean something bad was coming. He grabbed at Gally, nails dragging in lines down his back that made Gally moan and press his face into Thomas's, an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss that didn't stop for breath.

“Shuck, you're already, you know-” Gally said, looking down, and Thomas blinked and looked down at his hand, wrapped around Thomas's flushed skin so casually, and saw the stickiness in Gally's palm.

Thomas looked away, embarrassed. “I mean, we were kinda at it for a while. And I've been, you know, thinking about this for a while.”

“Hmm,” Gally said, and that thoughtful sound made Thomas shiver more than anything else. "Me too," he muttered in Thomas's ear, and Thomas  _whimpered._

Shuck, this was so embarrassing, but Gally could have said anything just then, his fingers twisting around Thomas's dick, and Thomas would have been helpless to refuse.

Gally kissed him again, thumb brushing the head in a way that had him squirming even harder. “Have you thought about _this_?”

His mouth – and his lips, god, those lips – found their way back to Thomas's chest, and then down, dipping at his belly button, and then he pulled Thomas's pants down to the middle of his thighs and moved his boxers down and took Thomas's dick in his mouth.

It took every ounce of self-control Thomas possessed not to move. His fingers gripped at the blankets next to his hips frantically, fingernails catching in the material as he tried desperately not to move. “I didn't,” he wheezed after a moment. “But shuck, shuck, Gally, _shuck_ ,” he said weakly, and he blinked wetness out of the corner of his eye, overwhelmed.

Gally backed off a little, his mouth making an obscenely wet-sounding pop. “You okay, Greenie?”

Thomas nodded, covering his face. “God, Gally. Yeah. I'm. I don't think I've ever been this good.” He peeked between his fingers and saw the smirk Gally was sending him, and oh, god, his mouth was on Thomas's dick again, and if this was going to be Thomas's death, it was a shucking good way to go. His lips were pretty and red and kiss-bruised and stretched around Thomas, and Thomas had never seen anything that hot in his life. Without thinking, he reached a hand down and ran it through Gally's hair, fingers seeking purchase, and Gally moaned around his dick, and that had Thomas gasping again. His knee accidentally knocked Gally in the shoulder and Gally pulled back again, which was equal parts torture and relief.

But then he looked up at Thomas and carefully hooked his broad shoulders under Thomas's legs and gripped Thomas's dick again, licking a broad stripe up the underside that made Thomas give a strangled shout and tighten his fingers in Gally's hair.

“Ah, ah, Gally,” he managed eloquently, stars spinning in front of his eyes. “I want you to, please, up here,” he said, hands reaching down to Gally's shoulders, drawing him up. When he had Gally at eye level, their harsh breaths mingling, Thomas reached down and slipped his hand into Gally's pants.

Gally huffed out a groan, leaning forward to bite at Thomas's bottom lip. Thomas didn't know what he was doing, but he knew that everything Gally had done had felt good, so he did his best to mimic that. He pulled his sticky hand out, and, curious, he brought his hand up to his mouth and licked his fingers. It was a little sweet, mostly bitter, but not unpleasant.

Gally's eyes slammed shut. “ _Shuck,_ shuck. Shuck.” He kissed Thomas hard, teeth clacking a little, and Thomas gave as good as he got. “Just keep- yeah,” he muttered into Thomas's mouth when Thomas unbuckled his pants and got his hand really around Gally. The angle was a little awkward at first, so different from when he did this to himself, but he adjusted his grip and Gally swore loudly.

“Does that-” Thomas asked it hesitantly, watching Gally's face, “does that feel good?”

Gally snorted. “Yes, you dumb shank, yes, it feels good.” He kissed him again, and this time Thomas smiled into it, happy, so happy that this was happening, finally. It felt like he'd been thinking about this since the first day he saw Gally, even if his fantasies back then had involved significantly more angry wrestling turning into making out. And maybe the wrestling wasn't off the table entirely. He hadn't thought that Gally would be so good at this, so easy with his hands, so ready to make Thomas feel good. He didn't know what he'd thought Gally would be like, but it wasn't this.

It wasn't the slight burn of Gally's stubble as they kissed – was it really kissing when you were breathing the same breath and whimpering into each other's mouths? - or the muscles moving in Gally's back as he thrust shallowly into Thomas's hand and Thomas did the same, one hand wrapped around the back of Gally's neck to anchor him. It wasn't the freckles on the outer shell of Gally's ear that Thomas suddenly found a little heartbreaking, or the sheen of sweat and slick on their hands when he looked down between them, at their hands and bodies pressed together. It wasn't the sound Gally made when he came, pupils blown wide and breath stuttering as he looked at Thomas, and it wasn't the way that sound triggered something deep in Thomas, bringing him to his own climax faster than he could have guessed, fingers digging sharply into Gally's neck and hip as their warm wetness splattered over his stomach and between his legs. It wasn't the way Gally's shaking arms gave way and Thomas let him just lay there, holding him close, even though he had a hard time breathing like this and they were both disgusting and should probably go wash this stuff off.

Thomas hadn't imagined any of it, any of the times he'd thought of what it would be like to be with Gally. But god, god this was so good.

 --

The persistent itch of stubble burn wasn't the most pleasant way to wake up, but when Thomas found it paired with Gally's warm weight against his side and one of his thick arms wrapped around Thomas's waist, it was bearable. He rubbed sleepily at his face, hoping it wasn't too obvious, and climbed out of bed to pull on his pants, grimacing at the mess on his stomach.

He glanced out the window, glad for the luxury, and found that the ground was blanketed in a startling white.

_Snow._

“Gally,” he whispered, shaking him. “Gally, wake up.”

Gally groaned and turned over. “S'it Grievers?” he slurred, face pressing back into his pillow. "Better be shuckin' Grievers if you're wakin' me up this early."

“No, no, it's nothing bad,” Thomas promised. “But I think there's snow, and I really think you need to see this. Right now. _Please._ ” Shuck, he needed to show this to someone, because there was _snow_ and this was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen and he really wanted Gally to see this with him.

Groaning, Gally rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants off the floor, running a lazy hand through his hair and looking sleepily at Thomas. “What's up?” he asked, sounding like his mouth was full of mush.

Thomas grinned. “ _Snow_.” And he pulled open the door.

Sometime during the night, Paradise had been cloaked in an uninterrupted blanket of white, like in the old fairy tale books, ice crystals sparkling on the edges of every tree and building.

Gally blinked at it a few times, then smiled, and looked back at Thomas.

“Pretty sure this calls for a celebration,” he said, and reached for Thomas.

“That sounds really great,” Thomas said between kisses, “But maybe we could clean up first?” He wrinkled his nose at the white crust on his pants and stomach.

Gally gave a lopsided smirk and shut the door against the chilly air. “I can think of a few ways we could get clean,” he said, and Thomas realized that he didn't actually care how dirty they were after all. Maybe there was a little more Glader in him than he'd thought.


End file.
